


we'll have some fun if it stops raining

by ferryboatpeak



Category: Harry Styles (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Band camp, C.H.A.S.M., Capture the Flag, M/M, Summer Camp, cockles and mussels, incidental haim, parent trap, peacock bombers, rainbow horsebit, the potatoes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferryboatpeak/pseuds/ferryboatpeak
Summary: Niall and Harry's bands decide to parent trap them. Part band camp au, part caricature, all fondness for the potatoes and C.H.A.S.M.





	1. paint the town green

**Author's Note:**

> [@moondoggiestyle](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com) proposed that narry's bands should parent trap them and I tossed off [a plot](http://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com/post/162263299398/the-narryhitchpotatoes-parent-trap-au-would-have), which got so many notes that I wrote it a little, and then I just kept writing because this verse is a nice place to pour my overwhelming fondness for these bands. I've now posted so many installments that it makes sense to compile them here. There's more to come, and please note that [@moondoggiestyle](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com) already [wrote the ending](http://moondoggiestyle.tumblr.com/post/162266760224/ferryboatpeak-the-narryhitchpotatoes-parent), so there is no risk that this WIP will leave you hanging.
> 
> Title from the Spike Jones summer camp classic Hello Mother, Hello Father. Title of the first chapter from The Script's song of the same name, which is the ultimate potatoes mood music.

“Ugh, I hate this already,” Sarah groans, collapsing backwards onto the closest bunk. The ruffles of her blouse puddle around her on the bare pinstriped mattress. “Why did Harry have to send us to band camp?”

“You know why,” Clare says. She darts toward the last bottom bunk and claims it with her duffle before Adam can wrestle his bass past the screen door into their cabin. “He’s busy with Dunkirk promo this month. There’s nothing for us to do.”

“Well, at least he could have bought us some better shoes.” Sarah braces one foot on the underside of the top bunk above her and inspects her rainbow horsebit loafer. “These aren’t even practical for archery, let alone hiking.”

“Do they do that stuff here?” Clare asks. “I thought it was band camp.”

“Did you see the schedule? It says there’s a flagpole ceremony before breakfast tomorrow. I think it’s pretty much just a regular old camp.”

Clare shrugs. “Suppose we should make the best of it.” She searches her memory for the kinds of things people do at summer camp. “Maybe they’ll teach us about edible plants. Or…,” she suddenly remembers, “…lanyards! I’m going to make all of you lanyards in arts and crafts. Wait, what’s a lanyard?”

“You should make one for Harry too,” Alex says, spreading his sleeping bag out on the bunk above Sarah’s. “Do they come in pink?”

At the mention of Harry, everyone looks over at Mitch, who’s sitting crosslegged on the bunk by the window. Of course Mitch got the best spot, Clare thinks, as if Harry handed out the bunk assignments himself.

“I miss him already,” Mitch says softly, peering out the window like he might see Harry pulling up in his Range Rover.

“Don’t worry, Mitch, I’ll sit on your lap and it’ll be just like Harry’s here.” Adam flings himself on top of Mitch. “Maybe Alex will even strip for you. You can pretend you’re right back in Jamaica.”

***

Sarah’s determined to try archery, footwear notwithstanding, so Clare tags along. Sarah turns out to be deadly with a bow in her hands. Clare sits back against a maple tree and claps lazily for her every time an arrow thumps into the center of the target.

Afterwards, they go for a swim in the lake. Clare spreads her towel on the sun-warmed dock and sprawls out to dry off in the afternoon heat.

She feels something bump into the dock, and opens her eyes. It’s Mitch in a kayak.

“This isn’t so bad, right?” he asks, levering his paddle into the water to hold himself in place.

“Yeah,” Clare agrees, stretching out in the sun. “Little break before tour starts. Not sure I would have picked band camp, but it’s okay.”

“Beats washing dishes,” Mitch says, and paddles away.

***

Clare sweeps her flashlight back and forth across the path as the band trudges back to their cabin after roasting hot dogs around the campfire. She’s full and tired from the sun and the swimming and probably one too many s’mores.

She digs her toothbrush out of her bag and looks around for the door to the bathroom, only to realize that there isn’t one. “Guys?” Clare asks, with trepidation. “Please tell me there’s a bathroom.”

“Not in here,” Alex answers, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s down the path on the right out there. Not too far.”

Clare swears under her breath. She’s tried to be as positive about band camp as she can, but this is really a step too far. They’ve got bears in America, right? What’s to stop them from eating her, alone in the dark woods? “Sarah, want to come with?”

Sarah grabs her own toothbrush and they make it to the shower hut without a bear attack. They shoulder their way into the row of campers jockeying for space in front of the sinks and brush their teeth with cold water that tastes faintly of iron. In the mirror, Clare covertly watches three sisters with really pretty hair who seem like they might make good camp friends.

On the way back, Clare notices light coming from the cabin next door to theirs, the first sign of life they’ve seen over there. As they pass by, there’s a burst of laughter that turns into a rousing chorus of Molly Malone.

“Interesting neighbors,” Clare comments. It sounds like someone’s pounding a drum solo on the wall of the cabin, in between barely tuneful shouts of “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!”

“I’d know that backbeat anywhere,” Sarah says grimly. “That’s Gerry Morgan.”

Clare can’t place the name at first. Then she realizes… “Wait, Gerry Morgan from Niall’s band? What’s he doing here?”

“Based on the song selection, I’m guessing the whole band’s over there. This shit couldn’t get more Irish if we were in Dublin.” Sarah bangs open the screen door to their cabin. “Gentlemen, we have an issue.”

Adam and Alex roll over to peer at them from their bunks. Mitch doesn’t move. All that’s visible of him is a blue stocking cap poking out of the top of his sleeping bag.

“Next door?” Alex asks. “I brought earplugs, if they keep going like this.”

The singalong segues into the Backstreet Boys.

“Do you have any idea who’s over there?” Sarah asks, her tone implying that they very much should.

Alex looks at her quizzically. “…No?”

“It’s Niall’s band, you idiot.”

And that gets Mitch’s attention. He sits up in his sleeping bag. “Oh, this is gonna be weird, isn’t it?”

“We probably shouldn’t even, like, talk to them,” Clare says, worried.

“What’s the big deal?” Adam asks. “They’re just another band.” He flops back onto his pillow.

“They are most certainly not just another band,” Sarah shoots back. “Harry won’t even mention Niall’s name.”

“Every time I ask about Niall, he gives some long off-topic answer and totally changes the subject,” Mitch says mournfully.

“Something’s weird there.” Sarah paces back and forth in the space between the bunks. “What would Harry want us to do?”

“Harry would pretend like nothing’s wrong while entirely avoiding confrontation,” Mitch answers authoritatively.

“That works, let’s just avoid them,” Alex says. “I don’t want to step in anything by mistake.”

“All right,” Clare agrees. “We’ll be polite if we have to, but we won’t engage.”

Everyone murmurs their agreement. Clare clicks off her flashlight and crawls into her bunk as the cabin next door launches into something that’s barely recognizable as a Spice Girls song.

The singalong keeps going, and going, and going. An hour later, Clare’s still shifting in her sleeping bag and burying her head under her pillow, trying to get to sleep. She can hear the others doing the same, except for Alex and his stupid earplugs.

Finally, Sarah makes an exasperated noise. “Fuck this,” she spits, and Clare hears nylon rustling as Sarah climbs out of her sleeping bag. “I’m going over there.”

“Sarah, I thought we weren’t going to associate with them,” Clare says, concerned that their very logical plan is already falling apart.

“I’m gonna associate my fist with Morgan’s face,” Sarah growls, and marches out of the cabin.

Clare shoves her bare feet into her loafers and runs after Sarah, clutching her robe around her. The refrain of, “And after all, you’re my wonderwaaaaaaall…” gets louder as she jumps down the steps of their own cabin and dashes after Sarah. She’s right behind as Sarah stomps up the steps to the other cabin and pounds on the door.

“Oh, shit!” The singing cuts off and Clare hears swearing and shuffling and clinking from inside the cabin, the sounds of a party hastily concealed.

Somebody in a paddy cap answers the door, trying to look innocent. Behind him, Clare can see three other guys sprawled out on bunks and the floor. They’re all wearing those stupid paddy caps. And there’s a cache of Guinness cans poorly concealed under one bunk. So Sarah had been wrong earlier, Clare thinks, it really could get more Irish.

“Hello, ladies.” The paddy cap at the door grins as he realizes Sarah and Clare aren’t the authorities coming to break up the party. “I thought it’d be at least a week before girls started trying to sneak into the boys’ cabin.”

“Sarah Jones!” says another paddy cap in the background, seemingly delighted. “Long time, no see.”

“Shut your face, Morgan,” Sarah snaps back, shouldering her way through the door. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Hi,” says the guy at the door to Clare, distracting her from Sarah and Gerry’s escalating argument. “I’m John Bird, and that’s Louis, and Jake.” He points to the others. “And it sounds like Gerry needs no introduction.”

Clare shakes his offered hand and introduces herself. She decides to try tact, since Sarah’s aggressive strategy doesn’t seem to be getting results. “Could you guys keep it down? We’re next door and it’s pretty loud.”

“Claaaaaaaare.” Bird shakes his head slowly, disappointed. “This is band camp. We’re here to have a good time, not go to sleep at 11 p.m. Want a beer?” He produces another can of Guinness, seemingly out of nowhere.

Clare politely declines. Sarah and Gerry are in each other’s faces. Clare hears Sarah sputter “…bad enough that I’m stuck in this wifi-less hellhole, the least I deserve is a good night’s sleep…” and decides extraction is in order.

“Sarah,” she says firmly. Sarah ignores her. Clare says her name again, louder this time. Finally, she grabs Sarah by the elbow and tugs her out the door, as Sarah twists in Clare’s grasp to scream over her shoulder, “By the way, Slow Hands sucks!”

“At least there’s not a duck in our band!” Gerry yells back at them as the screen door bangs shut.


	2. mail call

“Raccoon Cabin!” announces the head counselor, and Niall’s band cheers and pounds their table as Jake dashes to the front of the dining hall to claim their cabin’s mail.

Clare rolls her eyes. Probably another care package. Niall seems to send them every other day or so. His band always unpacks the boxes ostentatiously in the middle of the dining hall, lording their Oreos and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Pringles and Doritos over the rest of the camp.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the head counselor calling, “Deer Cabin!” She’s holding a cardboard box aloft in two hands.

Clare practically tips over her chair in her rush toward the package, the first mail to arrive for their cabin in two weeks of camp. The box is heavy for its size and addressed to all five of them. In the top corner, where the return address should go, there’s a familiar scrawled H.

On her way back to the table, she surreptitiously eyes Niall’s band as she passes them, feeling a bit smug when she realizes they didn’t get a package today. Instead, they’re crowded together with their heads bent over a single sheet of notepaper covered in neat, curly handwriting.

“Spread it out so we can all see,” Gerry demands.

Bird elbows him. “Easy, I’m doing it.”

While they bicker, Louis has his head tipped sideways to read the letter. “Hey, Niall’s coming for family weekend!”

Clare hadn’t been aware that family weekend was a thing. Well, it’s not like it matters. Probably Harry won’t come anyway. They haven’t even heard from him, until this package.

She deposits the box in the center of their table with a satisfying thud.

Everyone sits up a little straighter on the benches. “What’s that?” Alex asks.

“It’s from Harry,” Clare announces, with satisfaction.

“Harry?” Mitch’s eyes widen.

“God, it’s about time,” Sarah says. “I thought he’d forgotten about us.”

“C’mon, open it,” Adam demands.

“Maybe he sent fruit pastilles.” Clare tugs at the tape. “Or Lindor chocolates.”

Alex whips out his pocketknife and slices open the box’s seams, barely missing Clare’s fingers.

“You’re taking your woodcarving badge way too seriously,” she observes, as Alex wipes off the blade on his jeans and slips the closed knife back in his pocket.

Alex shrugs. “Tour won’t last forever. Never know when I’m gonna need a fallback skill.”

Clare folds back the flaps of the box and paws through the packing material, hoping for the familiar rustle of junk food. Instead, her fingers land on something cold and smooth. She pulls it out and blinks at it in disbelief. It’s a diptyque candle.

Suspicions growing, Clare pulls out handfuls of packing peanuts, scattering them over the table until the remaining contents of the box are exposed. Six diptyque candles. Nothing else.

“Well, that’s useful,” Sarah says sarcastically.

Clare lines the candles up on the table, realizing as she empties the box that there’s something beneath them. “Hey, there’s a letter in here.”

She tears open the flap of the pink envelope and reaches inside, but there’s no card or folded paper. Instead, her fingers sink into something soft and crumbling. She upends the envelope and empties its contents on the table, a heap of flaking petals.

“Flowers?” Adam says, incredulously.

Clare spreads open the envelope to confirm it’s empty. “Yeah, it’s just dead flowers.”

Sarah grimaces. “Niall’s band gets Pringles and we get dead flowers and candles?”

“Hey,” Mitch says, defensively, “the candles smell good.” He’s got one held up to his nose. “Sort of cinnamon-y.”

“So do you think he’s coming for family weekend, or what?” Clare wonders aloud.

Everyone looks at her blankly. “Family weekend?” Adam asks.

Clare’s suddenly embarrassed to have brought up the possibility, to have to admit to watching Niall’s band so closely. “Querelle said something about it, when I was walking by. I guess Niall’s coming.”

“God, Harry better not, then,” Sarah says. “Awkward…”

“You think he might?” Mitch rolls the candle between his hands.

Adam stands up and raps his knuckles on the table as he heads for the door. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mitch.”


	3. family weekend

Niall taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, impatient to get out of the traffic and reunite with the band. It was a good idea to send them to band camp, to give himself some space to focus on the last details of the album, but it’s been lonely without them around. Even as busy as Niall’s been, he’s found himself putting off other work to send them a couple of carefully handwritten letters.

The band’s been good about writing home, too. As Niall pulls into the parking lot and follows the crudely carved signposts toward the cabins, he feels like he already knows the place from Bird’s photos and Gerry’s near-daily postcards with mundane little details about camp life. Raccoon Cabin’s easy to pick out with the Irish tricolour hanging from the little front porch.

Niall jogs up the steps to the cabin and raps his knuckles on the frame of the screen door, peering inside. “What’s the craic, lads?”

“Niall!” Bird bangs open the door and hauls him inside, where the band welcomes him with gratifying enthusiasm. They’re gathered around a large cardboard carton sitting between the bunk beds in the center of the room. Jake and Querelle are each tugging open one of the flaps.

Niall turns his head to read the print on the side of the box. “Toilet roll?”

“In the states they call it TP’ing,” Jake says, digging into the carton and tucking several rolls under his arm. “Haim told us about it.”

“We’re going to TP Deer Cabin,” Gerry adds, with delight. “You in?”

“Sure,” Niall says, grabbing a couple of rolls in each hand. “Why Deer Cabin?”

“They need to lighten up.” Bird’s maneuvers the screen door open with his foot, both hands occupied with a stack of toilet roll. “They get mad at us for being loud at night, and they’re always moping over their scrambled eggs at breakfast, and they never come over for a beer.”

“Band camp is fun,” Jake adds, with great conviction, “and they think they’re too cool to have any fun.”

“Sounds lame,” Niall agrees, following the band outside to the cabin next door. They toss the rolls of paper back and forth across the roof and through the limbs of the maple tree that stands in front of Deer Cabin, until the cabin is thoroughly festooned. Niall’s happier than he’s been in weeks, horsing around with the lads and experimenting to determine the best tossing velocity for maximum distance without tearing the roll.

“Hold on,” Gerry says, after they exhaust their supplies and stand back to survey their handiwork. “One finishing touch.” He darts back into Raccoon Cabin and emerges a second later with a jar of peanut butter.

Querelle jogs up to the bend in the trail to the parking lot. “They’re coming!” he hisses back at the band. Niall hears a burst of laughter in the distance and feels a corresponding rush of giddy adrenaline.

“Hurry it up,” he urges Gerry, and Gerry hastily unscrews the top of the peanut butter jar and shoves the lid into Niall’s hand. He races up the steps to Deer Cabin, digging his hand into the jar, and smears a gob of peanut butter under the handle of the screen door.

“Go, go go!” Querelle hustles back down the path as the rest of them are laughing and dodging Gerry’s outstretched peanut butter-covered hand. They jostle back into Raccoon Cabin and slump on the floor beneath the open windows, shushing each other and waiting breathlessly for Deer Cabin to arrive. Niall can’t stop grinning. It feels like the kind of stupid school prank he missed out on when he was a teenager.

“Hey!”

“What the fuck!”

“Morgan, I know this was you! You punks better clean this up!”

Niall elbows Jake next to him and tries to stifle his laughter at the outraged reactions, most of them in British accents. The rest of the band is doing the same, Gerry with much less success than Querelle.

Footsteps stomp up Deer Cabin’s porch and someone yelps in rage, presumably whoever grabbed the door handle. Then, perfectly timed as the other voices quiet, Niall hears someone drawl, “I like what you’ve done with the place,” deep and slow and ironic, a smile behind the words. A creeping awfulness freezes its way down Niall’s spine.

He knows that voice. God, does he know that voice. “Jake,” Niall hisses into the ear closest to him. “Who the fuck is in the cabin next door?”

“It’s Harry Styles’s band,” Jake whispers back. “Hey, you guys were in One Direction together, right?”

Niall drops his head into his hands. “Oh, god, no.”

“You weren’t?” Jake looks at him, confused.

“No, I mean, we were, I just… no.” Niall stabs his thumb in the direction of the despoiled Deer Cabin. “That’s not good.”

From outside, Niall hears a female voice, getting closer to the window he’s crouched under. “It was Niall’s fucking band, it has to be.”

He risks sticking his head up just far enough to peek over the windowsill. Two girls and three guys are striding toward the front porch of Raccoon Cabin.

Harry’s in the background, waiting by the steps to Deer Cabin, an elbow in one hand and his chin propped in the other. There’s a quizzical expression on his face underneath the bill of his fisherman’s cap as he watches his band. Niall can see the tiny holes worn in his t-shirt and the rows of unfamiliar rings on his hands. His heart lurches painfully. Cheeks burning, he drops back below the window and looks frantically around at his band. “Hide me.”

Gerry points toward the closest bunk, and Niall flattens himself on the floor and rolls underneath. He elbows a duffle bag out of his way, knocking over a row of Guinness cans with a clatter just as the screen door bangs open. The floor vibrates underneath Niall as Harry’s band crowds into the cabin.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s a girl’s voice.

“Sarah! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Gerry says. Niall hears the pop and hiss of a beer can being cracked.

“Stop trying to be cute. You messed up our cabin.”

“Your cabin?” Gerry picks himself up off the floor and unhurriedly paces over to peer out the window. “What a shame. Don’t know how that could have happened.”

“Come on, it’s obviously you lot.” A male voice, with a British accent.

“Adam, I’m offended that you would suggest such a thing,” Bird says. He and Jake and Louis have casually rearranged themselves to sit with their backs against the bunk that’s hiding Niall. Peering between them from under the bed, all Niall can see by the door is a flock of Gucci loafers with rainbows on them. Of fucking course that’s Harry’s band, Niall thinks. He wonders, bitterly, which one is the guitarist.

“Get out there and clean it up.” The girl again. A loafer stomps to punctuate the demand.

“Make us,” Gerry says, unconcernedly. The bed sinks down above Niall as Gerry sits on the edge.

Whoever’s in the front pair of loafers bounces up on their toes. “Maybe I will.”

The rest of the Gucci loafers shift back and forth uncomfortably. “Sarah…” a guy’s voice says, in a warning tone. Niall rolls his eyes. No surprise Harry’s got a band of lovers, not fighters.

“Fine,” Sarah spits. “We’ll see you out there tomorrow.” It sounds like a threat. The Gucci loafers turn and file back out the screen door, which rattles in the frame with the force of their exit.

Niall worms his way out from under the bed as soon as Harry’s band is out of earshot. “What did she mean, tomorrow?”

“Capture the Flag,” Gerry says cheerfully. “We play them first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, do you want in?” Bird has somehow produced a cold can of Stella, which he hands to Niall.

That sounds like the worst idea Niall’s ever heard. “No, I probably shouldn’t.”

The band’s faces visibly fall. “But it’s going to be fun,” Jake says.

“And they’re five to our four,” Bird adds. “We need you.”

“C’mon, Niall.” Even Querelle’s against him. “The honor of our band is at stake. Are you going to let us go in at a disadvantage?”

Niall cracks his beer and downs half of it. Even the possibility of seeing Harry on the playing field makes his stomach clench. Curls caught back in a headband, tripping over his own two feet, long legs and too-short shorts. The tiger tattoo that Niall’s run his tongue along the edge of.

But it’s just Capture the Flag. How bad can it be? They’ll be running around in the woods. He can always run in the opposite direction of Harry. And he doesn’t want to let the band down. Niall finishes his beer and slams the can on the floor next to him with good-natured emphasis. “FIne, count me in.”


	4. c.h.a.s.m. investigates

As they troop out of Raccoon Cabin, Clare sees Harry on his tiptoes, stretching to catch a paper streamer in the lowest branches of the maple tree. There’s a small mound of the stuff on the ground next to him. He’s been cleaning up already.

“Adam, go help with the tree, you’re the tallest,” she says. “I’ll start on the porch. Mitch, can you grab the bin from inside?”

“Sure,” Mitch says, turning toward the steps.

“Probably wipe the door handle off first,” Clare adds quickly.

While they strip the toilet roll down from the roof, they can hear raucous laughter from Raccoon Cabin. The guitar seems to come out even quicker than usual, and soon Clare recognizes the chorus to Slow Hands.

“That’s funny,” she comments to Alex. “We haven’t heard them do one of Niall’s tunes before.”

“Is he here?” Alex asks. He shinnies up one of the porch supports and starts to claw down the last bits of paper from the edge of the roof.

Clare catches the scraps drifting down to her. “We would have seen him come in, wouldn’t we?”

“Yeah, must be getting here late.”

Harry approaches with an armful of paper. “So that’s Niall’s band next door?” he asks. Clare can’t tell if the casualness of the question is feigned.

“Yeah,” Sarah says flatly, coming around the corner of the cabin with a broom.

“What are they like?” Harry’s bent over the bin, stuffing toilet roll inside, not meeting their eyes.

“Loud drunk Irishmen,” Adam says, on his tiptoes reaching for a scrap of paper still dangling from the tree.

“I don’t think Querelle’s Irish,” Clare points out. Or is he? Suddenly she can’t remember ever having heard Querelle’s accent.

“If he wasn’t before, he might as well be now,” Sarah says. She’s got her foot in the bin, stomping down the pile of paper threatening to overflow.

“Have they been a problem?” Now Clare can tell Harry’s being too casual.

She doesn’t want Harry to think she’s a complainer. “They’re fine,” Clare says carefully. “They just… keep different hours than us.”

Sarah has no such reservations. “They sing until two in the morning. And they’re always so bloody happy about every little thing. Like, it was meatloaf night in the dining hall last week and Jake practically wrote a song about it. They’re driving us crazy.”

“They do seem to… enjoy camp, a lot” Clare adds, politely. The band’s enthusiasm really is kind of charming, when it’s not 2:00 a.m. They keep volunteering to lead the morning flagpole ceremony, with results that – if not exactly reverent – are always amusing.

Harry raises his eyebrows and blows out a breath. “Sounds exhausting.”

Clare decides to seize the moment. “They were saying that Niall’s going to be here this weekend,” she says, watching Harry closely for a reaction.

The corners of his eyes tighten the tiniest bit. It’s enough for Sarah to pounce.

“What’s up with you two?”

“I think all of us are enjoying exploring our own paths right now,” Harry says, relaxing into the answer with the ease of long practice.

Sarah’s eyes sharpen. Clare can tell she smells blood. “That wasn’t a band question, Harry, that was a Niall question. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. “It’s just been a while since we’ve talked. We were in a band together, now we’re not. We could all use a little space.”

“Clare could walk out of this band tomorrow and I’d still speak to her,” Sarah insists. “What happened?”

Harry’s silent, looking pained. Clare realizes that Adam and Alex and Mitch have all drawn in closer. The five of them are standing shoulder to shoulder, gathered around where Harry’s leaning against a porch support.

Harry straightens up. “Toilets probably aren’t in there, are they?” he asks abruptly, gesturing at the cabin door. “Can someone point me in the right direction?”

“Down the path that way, then left,” Adam says. “Watch out for the stall on the end, lock’s busted.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Sarah calls after Harry as he scuttles down the path.

“You can say, ‘He went for a wee, and never came back,’” Harry calls over his shoulder, disappearing into the trees.

Clare looks around at the rest of the band. Mitch looks suspicious. Adam looks pensive. Alex looks indifferent.

Sarah looks calculating. “Look, we’ve got to figure out what’s going on here.”

“You’ve known Harry the longest.” Clare turns to Adam. “Do you have any idea what happened with him and Niall?”

Adam shrugs. “Don’t know a thing. Lou might.”

“Well, it’s not like we can call her,” Sarah paces along the edge of the porch. “I lost reception when we were still an hour away from this hellhole.”

“Hey, maybe there’s wifi somewhere,” Alex pipes up. “Camp director’s office, maybe? We could try to skype her, or email?”

“Yeah, that’s worth a shot,” Sarah says. She stops pacing and balances with her heels hanging over the edge of the porch, bouncing on her toes. “How can we do it without Harry noticing?”

“We’ll sneak out during campfire tonight,” Clare suggests. The possibility of answers, and a few minutes of internet, beats s’mores. “Alex, if the door’s locked, could you get us in?”

Alex holds up his pocketknife. “No problem.”

“Count me out,” Mitch says. “I’m spending campfire with Harry.”

“Good, you can distract him.” Sarah’s back to pacing. “Adam, you want to stay with them? You’re pretty distracting.”

Adam groans. “Do I have to be Mitch and Harry’s third wheel?

“Take one for the team, Ad Blocker,” Sarah orders. “We’ll be quick.”

“Clare, stay with us?” Adam looks at her beseechingly.

“I think I should go with,” Clare says, thinking quickly for some justification. “If we can’t reach Lou, we can at least google, and we’ll cover more ground with three people searching.”

“Fine.” Adam sighs. “But you three owe me.”

Sarah swings herself around the support at the end of the porch, peering around the corner of the cabin down the path to the toilets. “He’s coming,” she hisses back at the band. “Look busy.”

***

Clare sees Niall on the other side of the campfire that night. She tries to get closer, as if mere proximity will provide some insight. But he’s surrounded by his band at all times. Somehow they always manage to be on the opposite side of the fire from Clare and her bandmates and Harry.

When the sun has set and Harry’s occupied with toasting a marshmallow for Mitch, Sarah elbows her. “Let’s do this.”

Clare raises her eyebrows at Alex, who nods. The three of them filter through the crowd around the campfire and prop their marshmallow sticks against a tree at the edge of the woods. As Clare strolls casually along the treeline toward the path to the camp office, the weight of her phone in her back pocket feels strange after two weeks with no connectivity.

Once they’re out of sight of the campfire, they break into a run.

The office is dark. They stop outside the door and turn their phones on. Clare’s old phone comes to life the slowest. “Is there a signal?” she asks.

“Just barely,” Alex says. “I can’t load anything. The network’s called ‘bandcamp,’ though, so it must be right.”

“Can we get in?”

Alex pockets his phone and pulls out his knife, flipping open a slim tool. He probes several angles around the lock before asking, “Do either of you have a bobby pin?”

“Got it.” Clare plucks a pin from her topknot and Alex has the heavy door creaking open a moment later.

The moose head on the wall in the director’s office casts a creepy shadow in the moonlight from the window. By silent agreement, none of them go for the light switch. Clare opens her phone and searches for the wifi network, grateful to find it open and unsecured. She connects, and impatiently watches notifications scroll rapidly down the screen. Alex and Sarah’s phones are doing the same thing, alert tones clashing with each other as they all wait out two weeks of missed calls and unanswered texts and Instagram notifications.

“OK, I’m facetiming Lou,” Clare finally announces. “Sarah, you try Skype.”

Lou doesn’t pick up for either of them. Clare leaves a pleading voice message instead. “Lou, it’s Clare, and Sarah and Alex, at band camp. We don’t have wifi for long so if you could facetime us as soon as possible, we’d really, really appreciate it. Thanks!”

When she hangs up, Sarah and Alex are already deep into googling. “What should I search?” Clare asks.

“Start with just Harry and Niall.” Sarah stabs at her screen with an index finger. “There’s plenty there.”

Clare complies. “Oooh, look how cute they were!” Clicking on the image search results serves her well. It’s hard to believe that the Harry she knows, king of the world in his silk dragon suits, was a tragic teenager in high-tops and a puffer vest. “Look at those baby faces!” she croons.

She scrolls down, and down, and down, over image after image of Harry and Niall. Arms around each other, chins on each other’s shoulders, whispering into each other’s ears…

Next to her, Sarah and Alex are seeing the same thing. “God, look at the way Niall looks at him,” Sarah says.

“So Niall was clearly in love with him,” Alex says. “What’s the big deal? Everyone in the world’s in love with Harry. That wouldn’t mess Harry up.”

“No, no, look at this gif, he looks like he literally wants to eat Niall.” Sarah tips her phone toward Alex.

“I don’t know.” Alex sounds skeptical. “It’s not that different from how he looks at Mitch.”

“Oh, look at this one, Niall’s kissing him!” Clare exclaims. It looks unexpected. There’s… mistletoe, maybe? Harry’s expression is completely delighted. She leans in toward Sarah so they can both see. “Oh, there’s another one, Harry’s kissing him. See, on the shoulder there.”

“So it was mutual,” Sarah says, amazed.

Just then, Clare’s phone vibrates in her hands and facetime opens. “It’s Lou, it’s Lou!” Alex crowds in on her other side and Clare picks up the call while stretching the phone out in front of her to get all three of them in the frame. “Hi, Lou! Thanks for calling.”

Lou’s clearly just woken up. She’s in an old t-shirt and Clare is envious of her perfect bedhead. “Are you guys still at band camp?”

“Ugh, yes,” Sarah groans.

Clare cuts her off; no need to waste time ranting about the indignities of camp. “Hey, Lou, Niall’s here.”

“Is he?” She sounds pleased. “Tell him I said hello. And that he’s the best-looking one.”

“Sure, if we talk to him,” Clare says. She cuts to the chase. “”We’re trying to figure out what happened with him and Harry, do you know anything?”

“What do you mean?” Lou scrubs a hand through her hair, which continues to look perfectly tousled.

“They aren’t speaking to each other, I don’t think.”

“Still?” Lou looks surprised.

“Still?” Clare asks. “How long has this been going on?”

Lou yawns. “They broke up, what, almost two years ago?”

“So they were together!” Clare’s delighted that the pictures weren’t wrong. “Why did they break up?”

“They were young.” Lou waves a hand. “Beyond that, I don’t really know. Harry never really talked to me about it, but I always sort of thought – “

A key scrapes in the lock. Clare jumps guiltily and shoves her phone into her back pocket. Alex and Sarah do the same. She scans the room for a hiding place, but there’s no time. The three of them are still standing in the middle of the room, caught, when the director flips on the light.

The director holds out her hand, palm up. “Phones, please.”

“What do you mean?” Alex plays dumb.

She rolls her eyes. “I know you’re in here chasing wifi. Come on, give me your phones.”

“None of us have phones,” Sarah lies sweetly.

Right then, Lou’s voice projects loud and clear from Clare’s pocket. “Clare? You guys still there? You went dark just now.”

The camp director raises her eyebrows at Clare and wiggles the fingers of her still-outstretched hand.

Clare fishes her phone out reluctantly. “Bye, Lou, thanks,” she calls as she disconnects the call and deposits it in the camp director’s hand.

“You too.” The director looks at Alex, then at Sarah.

“Fine,” Sarah says through gritted teeth, relinquishing her phone. Alex follows suit.

“You’ll get these back at the end of camp,” the director says. “Now get on back to the campfire.”

The three of them exchange guilty looks as they hustle out the door and back down the path. “Goddammit,” Sarah swears. “We barely learned anything, and we lost our phones to boot.”

“Sarah, we learned _everything_ ,” Clare objects. “They were _in love_.” She thinks back on the photos, years and years of Harry and Niall by each other’s sides, draped over each other’s backs.

“So now we know,” Alex says. “What difference does it make?”

Clare doesn’t really have an answer, but it has to make a difference. It has to mean something. “Can’t we do anything about it? If they just talked…” Clare trails off as they blend back into the crowd around the campfire, not knowing what they can do, but certain, somehow, that they have to do something.


	5. morning yoga

Clare’s the first one awake the next morning, as usual. She slips out of her sleeping bag as silently as possible and pulls a cardigan over her tank top and leggings. Tiptoeing toward the door, she picks her way around the squeakiest of the floorboards and winces as the screen door opens with a harsh creak.

Harry lifts his head and blinks sleepily at her from Mitch’s bunk. Realizing where she’s headed, he gestures at the yoga mat under her arm. “Mind if I…”

“Sure,” Clare whispers, cutting him off before he wakes anyone else. “I’ll wait outside.” Harry slides out from under Mitch’s arm and retrieves his own mat from beneath the bunk as Clare eases the screen door closed behind her.

She waits on the porch steps until Harry emerges, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt. “I usually go down to the lake,” she tells him, getting to her feet. “All right with you?”

Harry’s eyes cut toward Raccoon Cabin. “Yeah, let’s get away a bit.”

They spread their mats out at the end of the dock, surrounded by traces of mist rising from the lake. Its still surface reflects the pink-tinged sky and the pine trees that surround it. Clare leads them through a series of morning poses, Harry following wordlessly.

After 45 minutes, the sun is peeking over the trees and the morning birdsong is starting to fade. They finish with half lord of the fishes pose. “This is nice,” Harry says as he untangles his legs afterwards. “We should do this on tour.”

“I’d like that.” Clare’s about to get to her feet when something about Harry’s left hand, still braced on the mat, catches her eye. After a moment, she figures it out. “You’ve got a new ring.” The red stone on his pinky finger glints in the morning sun.

“I do.” He’s smiling. Beaming, actually, Clare realizes.

“What’s this one for?”

Harry ducks his head and looks up at her sideways. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Of course!” Clare thrills at the idea of being entrusted with a secret, a secret of Harry’s. A happy secret, by the looks of him.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Nick proposed.” He looks like he can’t quite believe it, like it’s too good to be true.

Clare squeaks and claps her hands over her mouth. “Congratulations! Harry, that’s wonderful!”

“Thanks,” Harry says, wrapping his arms around his knees. “It feels a bit weird to say it out loud. We haven’t told very many people. It’s been nice to have it just for the two of us.”

“Is that why your pinky finger?” Clare grabs his hand, inspecting the ring more closely now that she knows its significance.

“That’s just where it fit,” Harry says. “It’s a family ring, on his side. Didn’t have time to get it resized while I was in London. And now I don’t really want to take it off to have it done.”

“That’s so sweet.” Clare remembers hanging out with Nick when the band was in New York, and then in London. He was funny, and easy to talk to, and obviously completely gone on Harry. Harry never actually introduced him as his boyfriend, though. “I didn’t realize the two of you had been together for that long,” she ventures.

“Longer than people have known,” Harry says. “Should have been longer, really.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry shifts into a crouch and starts to roll up his mat. “We were friends for ages. Took me a while to figure out what I wanted.”

Clare thinks back to the conversation with Lou the previous night, remembers that Niall and Harry broke up less than two years ago. And that Harry won’t talk about it, and doesn’t talk to Niall. She wonders what role Nick played in whatever happened between Harry and Niall, and immediately tries to shake off the thought. Harry’s engaged. He’s happy. She should be focusing on that.

“Well, I’m thrilled for you.” Clare pulls Harry into a hug and spends the walk back to the cabin asking him about whether he’d rather have a destination wedding or a party in London, even though Harry insists that they’re not planning a ceremony any time soon.

Adam holds the screen door open for them, wearing his peacock bomber jacket. “You guys ready for breakfast?”

Harry’s eyes cut next door again. “”Think I’ll skip it,” he says. “Bring me a coffee?”

“Sure, mate,” Adam says. “You’ve got to come with us for Capture the Flag afterwards, though.”

Harry’s expression is dubious. “I’m not sure about that.”

“C’mon, we’re all wearing our jackets,” Adam says as Clare slips past him into the cabin. Sure enough, Sarah, Alex, and Mitch are all in their peacock bombers.

“Yay, jacket day.” Clare grabs her own bomber from where it hangs over a bunk bed post. “Team uniform! Harry, do you have yours?”

“I don’t think I’m really on the team, for this purpose,” Harry says slowly. “I mean, otherwise I am…”

“It’s not going to be the same without you.” It’s possible Mitch is trying to make puppy dog eyes, but the end result looks no different than his usual expression.

“You can’t spell C.H.A.S.M. without H,” Adam says.

“Technically, you can’t spell C.H.A.S.M. with two A’s,” Harry says, looking at Alex. “Without an H you could spell ‘A SCAM’ though. Or ‘sarcasm,’ almost. Should we find another band member whose name starts with R? Except, we’d need two S’s, wouldn’t we. You’re probably enough for two, though, Sarah. What about ‘maracas’? No, that’s got an R too… “

Harry’s moving his fingers in the air like he’s sliding around Scrabble tiles. This could go on for a while. Sarah cuts him off. “Harry, you have to come, we’re playing…”

“Really well lately!” Clare cuts Sarah off before she can reveal who their opponents are. If Harry knows it’s Niall’s band, he’ll never agree to play. But if he does play Capture the Flag with them, she’ll get to see him interact with Niall. “Harry, it would be really great if you’d be on our team. Please?”

Her puppy dog eyes must be better than Mitch’s. “All right, all right.” Harry shakes his arms out like he’s loosening up for a match. “Am I going to regret this?”

Adam fist-bumps him. “I promise it’ll be easier than Dunkirk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be part of a larger chapter but then i realized if i post it now my total ao3 word count for 2017 will hit a much nicer number, so here you go. planning to finish this work in 2018, thanks for reading!


	6. capture the flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been a long time! for those of you rejoining me, please remember this is set in summer 2016, when harry's band still had an alex and niall's didn't yet.

Harry deigns to come to breakfast. In the dining hall, he leads them briskly to the far corner, avoiding the table in the center where Niall and Gerry are throwing bits of pancake at Jake. He chooses a seat that puts his back to Niall and his band, and pours a mug of coffee. When Sarah and Mitch return from the kitchen window with platters of bacon and french toast and a bowl of hard-boiled eggs, Harry downs the rest of his coffee, grabs two eggs in one hand, and pushes his chair back. “Forgot something at the cabin,” he says, and bolts out the side door.

“Wow.” Clare looks around at the rest of the band. Adam shrugs at her. Mitch is looking at the door that just slammed shut behind Harry. He keeps glancing back in the same direction as they eat their breakfast, until -- with perfect timing -- Harry slips back in the side door just as Clare and Adam get up to clear the table. 

Clare hopes they look suitably intimidating in their jackets as they stride past the softball field toward the camp’s Capture the Flag grounds. She’s got their flag draped over her shoulder. (“I almost forgot,” Harry’d said after breakfast, digging in his leather carryall and producing a pink flag printed with floating flowers and a brass screw. “Molly said this would come in handy.”)

They make their way uphill to a clearing at the edge of the woods, Harry leading the way with one arm draped over Sarah and the other over Mitch. He stops short when he sees Niall and his band waiting on one side of the line that divides the course. Without turning his head or disturbing his cheerful expression, he hisses, “Did you know who we were playing?”

“No idea,” Clare says cheerfully. “Let’s get to it.”

Harry gives her a wounded look that Clare ignores. As they spread out across the starting line from Niall’s band, she jostles Harry toward the center of the lineup, facing Niall. Niall stares straight past Harry’s shoulder, stubbornly avoiding eye contact.

Sarah, across from Gerry, scratches her nose with her middle finger. Clare pokes her.

“I see some new faces today,” the camp director announces. “So we’ll go over the rules.” She straddles the starting line between the bands. “When I blow the whistle, you have five minutes to position your flag in your own territory. I’ll whistle again to start the match. Anyone tagged in enemy territory goes to jail until one of your own teammates tags you free. Any questions?”

“Hey,” Jake says, pointing up and down the line. “They’ve got an extra player. One of them should have to sit out.”

“I’ll sit,” Harry says immediately. He turns to walk back down the hill.

Clare grabs his sleeve. “He’s part of our team.” She holds on tight to the slippery fabric as Harry tries to pull away. “He should get to play.”

“It’s really fine, I’m glad to sit,” Harry says, trying to struggle his arm out of the jacket sleeve that Clare’s gripping.

Bird crosses his arms. “Let him sit, it’s not fair otherwise.”

“No.” On the other side of the line, Adam crosses his arms and leans toward Bird intimidatingly. “We want him to play.”

As the debate devolves into shouted protests by Niall’s band and equally vehement insistence by Harry, Clare’s surprised to hear Niall speak up. “I’ve seen him play football, lads,” he tells his band dismissively. “He’s not gonna be much of a threat.”

Clare bristles, torn between the instinct to defend Harry’s honor and her refusal to let him sit out the game.

“Excuse me,” Harry objects. “I scored a goal for you, Niall.”

Niall sighs tiredly. “James set that up.”

Harry gasps in horror.

“Hold on, I’ve got this,” Gerry says. He walks over to the edge of the hill and yells with deafening volume toward the softball field. “Conor! Hey, Conor!” 

In the distance, a broad kid with a paddy cap looks up at Gerry from the outfield. He waves and peels off from the softball game, jogging up the hill toward them. Clare doesn't understand how she hasn't noticed him around camp before. He looks just like the rest of Niall's band.

“This is my cousin Conor,” Gerry announces when Conor reaches the top of the hill, panting. “He’s the most iconic man in the world. Conor, we need a sixth, you in?”

“Sure.” Conor tugs his paddy cap more firmly down on his head. Jake slaps him on the back.

“Great, problem solved,” Clare says quickly. “Let’s get on with the game.”

Conor lines up opposite Alex and everyone tenses, poised to turn and run as soon as the game starts. Across from Clare, Querelle narrows his eyes. “You’re going down,” he mutters. Clare doesn’t have time to respond before the whistle blows and everyone scatters.

“Spread out before we hit the treeline,” Clare says low to Harry as the band runs across the field. “Don’t let them see where we’re headed.” To her left, Sarah glances over her shoulder to check on Niall’s band.

Clare slows down when she reaches the woods at the edge of the field, picking her way through ivy and over a downed tree toward the closest trail. “Clare?” Harry calls, somewhere to her right.

“This way.” Clare stops and waits for Harry to come crashing through the brush toward her, tripping over branches and vines. “Follow me.” They meet the others in a clearing, just in time to see Sarah swinging herself up into the branches of a large maple tree. Clare hands the flag up to her and Sarah drapes it over a limb.

Harry leans against the trunk. “What do we do now?”

“Let’s just wait here,” Sarah says, dropping from the lowest limb to land on her feet like a cat. “They have no strategy. They’re probably all going to come charging in here.”

“Where do we think theirs is hidden?” Adam pauses on his way across clearing, dragging a downed branch toward the spot where Mitch has marked out the corners of their jail. 

“They all went the same direction,” Sarah says. “Bet their flag’s at the big rock.” 

“How do you know that?” Harry asks, bemused.

“Harry.” Sarah claps a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been stuck here for three weeks playing so much Capture the Flag that I could draw you a topographic map of this course and write a strategy manual on all the places you can plant your flag.”

“Sorry about that,” Harry says, breezily, not looking the least bit sorry. “We can trade places for the rest of the summer if you’d like.”

“What’s the catch?” asks Sarah, immediately suspicious.

“You’ve got a better deal at camp,” Harry says. “I’ve got to spend the next two weeks doing interviews with Fionn Whitehead.”

“Camp it is.” Sarah pats Harry’s shoulder. “Sorry, buddy. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it fun.”

Harry smirks. “Probably will.”

A branch cracks in the distance. The band draws into a circle around the tree. As Niall’s band crashes into the clearing all at once, Harry tries to hide behind Adam.

Clare quickly counts the paddy caps. Five of them. “Niall’s guarding the flag,” she calls to her bandmates. Harry immediately darts out from behind Adam and tags Bird and Conor. Alex manages to tag Jake before Gerry and Querelle take note of the casualties and flee for their own territory.

Clare and her bandmates regroup around the tree with cheers and high fives. “Let’s strike fast,” she says. “Adam, you guard our flag. I’ll take the jail. Harry, you and Sarah and Mitch and Alex go on offense.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d rather stay on guard here.” 

“You’re faster than me,” Clare says. “And your reach is longer. We need you going for their flag.”

“But all of you know the territory already,” Harry objects. He wraps his arm around the tree trunk, as if someone’s threatening to pull him away from it. “You’ll be much more effective than me.”

“You don’t want to guard the jail, mate,” Adam tells him. “They have singalongs.”

“We sure do,” Jake calls across the clearing. He points at Bird and Conor. “Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you…” 

The other two join in. “By now, you shoulda somehow realized what you gotta do…”

“I’m not going over there,” Harry says flatly, over the din of Wonderwall. He’s using the tone he brings out in rehearsals sometimes when he and Alex disagree about an arrangement. It’s the tone that means Harry gets his way.

“Fine,” Clare says, with forced pleasantness, because there’s no more arguing. “You can take the jail.” She beckons to Sarah and Mitch and Alex. “Let’s do this.” 

The other three nod. Clare looks over her shoulder as they take off for the field. Harry’s leaning back exaggeratedly against the flag tree with his hips stuck out in front of him. Adam elbows him to get over to the jail, and Harry stumbles and almost loses his balance. The gleefully howled chorus of Wonderwall stutters and breaks off as Niall’s band laughs at him.

Things don’t go any better over on the other side of the field. They split up and circle into the woods so they can double back and approach Niall’s flag from two different sides, but the cautious approach gives Niall’s band enough time to free some of their numbers from Harry’s apparently ineffectual guard of the jail. As Clare and Alex peer out of the trees at the tricolour flag draped over the rock next to Niall, they hear a burst of profanity that is unmistakably the sound of Sarah being captured.

They don’t hear a peep from Mitch, but if Sarah’s in jail, Mitch must be as well. “I’ll free them, you get the flag,” Clare tells Alex.

As she sneaks around the base of the rock, she hears Querelle’s voice on the other side, calling up to Niall on top of the rock. “Niall, you should go for their flag. I can handle things here.”

“Thanks, but I think it’s better I stay,” Niall says, in the same tone of finality that Harry used to stay put over on their side. Clare grinds her teeth. How can they both be so stubborn?

By pure luck, she locates the other side’s jail while Gerry, on guard, has his back to her. Mitch is lazily sprawled on his back, hands behind his head, while Sarah paces the branch-lined boundaries of the jail space. Clare peeks out from behind a tree to catch her eye. Sarah gives her a thumbs up, and nudges Mitch with her toe.

Too late, Clare realizes that the sounds of Mitch scrambling to his feet are going to catch Gerry’s attention. She sprints toward the jail with just enough time to tag Sarah free as Gerry grabs Mitch’s arm.

“Who’s On The Loose now, bitch?” Sarah shouts at Gerry behind them as they flee toward their own territory.

The game’s a blur after that. Both bands are back and forth across the starting line, in and out of jail in every permutation possible, until Clare looks up in the midst of another unsuccessful charge into Niall’s territory and realizes it’s only her. Three of her bandmates are in jail, and she’s got to get back to her home turf before she’s captured as well.

Gerry realizes it at the same time. He whistles for the rest of his band. Clare hurdles over downed trees, dodges past rocks, and streaks across the empty field with four of them hot on her heels. Panting, exhausted, she leaps across the starting line and collapses safe in her own territory. Conor, Jake, Bird, and Querelle almost trample her as they sprint past, gunning for her band’s flag. 

Clare scrambles to her feet and keeps running, ignoring the stitch in her side. Her band left their jail unguarded to make a full-strength assault on the tricolour flag, so only Harry’s left to protect theirs. Everyone else is in jail. If she can’t get to the tree in time, it’ll be Harry against four of Niall’s band, and the flag’s as good as lost.

Despite her desperate efforts, she’s the last person to reach the clearing. She bursts through the trees as Niall’s band converges on Harry.  _ Too late _ , Clare thinks, and braces herself against the nearest tree trunk to catch her breath and wait for them to snatch the pink flag triumphantly.

But the scuffle at the base of the flag tree doesn’t go as she expected. Harry’s dancing back and forth on his tiptoes, smiling gleefully, his cephalopod arms darting in all directions. Before Clare even registers what’s happening, Harry’s tagged all four of them. No one’s managed to lay a hand on the flag.

“How did you do that?” she gasps at Harry as Niall’s band slinks toward jail.

Harry shrugs. “I box a lot.”

“You should go get their flag.” Clare takes up the post as jail guard, smiling magnanimously at Niall’s band as Jake flips her off. “There’s only Niall and Gerry left over there. One of them has to guard the jail so our side can’t escape, so there’s only one person guarding the flag.” With the footwork she just saw from Harry, Clare has no doubt he can manage to grab the tricolour before Niall tags him.

“You should do it,” Harry says. “I can guard the jail. You…” -- Harry pauses, thinking -- “uh... you know your way around better than I do.”

“I just ran all the way back,” Clare says, breathing heavily to underscore her point. “I can’t outrun anyone right now. Your legs are fresh.” She diplomatically refrains from noting that Harry’s got such reserves because he’s refused to move for the entire game.

“I’d rather not,” Harry says pleasantly, but it’s more of an edict than a preference.

Clare tries anyway. “Harry, you  _ have _ to. Otherwise we’re going to lose!”

“I’m sure we’ll all recover without too much emotional scarring.” Harry slides his shoulderblades down the trunk of the flag tree, resuming his hip thrust pose.

Clare drops to the ground outside the jail and and pulls her legs into lotus position. She tries to breathe evenly and attain a state of serenity. This is ridiculous. They’re just supposed to sit here until the sun sets and the camp director calls it a draw? She briefly considers freeing Niall’s band, or even handing the flag over to them just to end the game. But she can’t forfeit without consulting the rest of her team. 

She opens one eye, surveying the prisoners, and picks one out. “You’re John Bird, right?” Bird seems like the nicest one. Bass players are always nice. He’s basically their Adam, right?

“At your service,” Bird says, tipping his paddy cap.

Clare smiles. Charming Irishmen. “Has Niall left your territory this entire game?”

“I don’t think so.” Bird looks at his bandmates for confirmation. They all shake their heads.

“Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

Niall’s band looks at each other, shrugging. “Not really,” Jake says. “He’s got a bum knee.”

By the tree, Harry snorts. The band looks at him with puzzled expressions, and Clare seizes the opening. “There’s more to it than that,” she says meaningfully. “We need to talk.”

The band shrugs at each other again. “So talk,” Conor says.”

“Not here.” Clare looks at Harry. His mouth’s halfway open, as if he’s about to say something but isn’t quite sure what it should be. She turns back to Niall’s band and says, quickly, “I’ll let all of you out of jail if you give me safe passage into your territory to free my band, and then all of us go down to the lake to have a talk.”

Bird looks skeptical. “What about the game?”

“Harry and Niall can guard the flags and ignore each other.” Clare says the last bit pointedly, loud enough for Harry to hear from the flag tree.

Jake’s eyebrows go up at that. “Deal,” he says.

The band gets to their feet, and Clare spreads her arm wide to beckon them out of jail. Harry straightens up, confused. “Temporary armistice,” Clare announces. “We’re having a band summit.”

“Hold on…” Harry lifts a hand, gesturing for them to stop.

“You’re not invited,” Clare says, before Harry can go any further. “Mind the flag while we’re gone.” She links one elbow through Bird’s and the other through Louis’s and lets them escort her out of the clearing, leaving Harry gaping in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's to another update before December 2019

**Author's Note:**

> visit me [here](http://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com) for all your potatoes/C.H.A.S.M. needs


End file.
